


When the tides turn

by Flustered_Sparrow



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Other, RajjPatel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24405547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flustered_Sparrow/pseuds/Flustered_Sparrow
Summary: The ocean has no care about time. The tide ebbs and flows without worry to what the new day may bring.The ocean may not bend to the Capitol's will. But Wilbur does.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49
Collections: victors' tower (stories from floor 6)





	When the tides turn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WreakingHavok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/gifts).



The ocean has no care about time. The tide ebbs and flows without worry to what the new day may bring. 

Wilbur is inclined to agree with it. Even as he is packaged into his neat little box and sat on the shelf that is floor five, there is still the thunder of waves that beats deep within him. He drifts, caught in its flow, streaming when he feels and never giving thought to what may come tomorrow. Though there are a few occasions where even the roughest of seas must be silenced.

The ocean may not bend to the Capitol's will. But Wilbur does.

They come crashing into his room at unreasonable hours. They shake him and tug him until his bleary eyes open, then he's shoved into the clutches of his prep team, and it's all he can do to keep himself afloat. His stylist is next, nimble fingers sewing finishing touches onto his costume, applying makeup in thin, wispy strokes. She whispers a soft apology into his ear before he's pushed out into the storm. 

The floor is a hurricane of activity. His friends are lined up down the hallway. They offer him pitying looks as he walks past, the only solace they could give without breaking character. Cameramen stalked the apartment, each accompanied by a posse of peacekeepers. They eyed the victors with practised caution. Wilbur regarded them with disgust.

He was led to the sitting room, where Rajj sat evenly on a couch, his signature smile plastered on his face. He had would pass the torch on to Pyro this year, but Wilbur supposed that it would be a while until the Capitol recognised him as the face of the Games. It was a small comfort.

"The birthday boy himself, how are you feeling?"

"Well, you know, it's not every day that you turn seventeen." There's a confidence in his voice that seems foreign, so distant from the stammering boy that first faced the crowds. He can't tell if it's a blessing or a curse.

"Ah, finally filling your boots, eh Wilbur?" _Are you adjusting to life as a Victor?_

"Yeah, you could say that." _As much as I can._

"Any special plans?" 

"I think we'll be having a celebration later, maybe even some cake!" There was no cake back in '4. Sometimes, you'd be lucky enough to get bread- real bread, the stuff that wasn't stale from the sea wind or salty from the spray. He couldn't imagine swallowing a single bite of the sugary sponges they served the Capitol.

"I bet no-one trusts you with the candles!" Wilbur stiffened.

"Y-you know what they say, Rajj. Where there's smoke..." It's followed by nervous laughter from both of them. Rajj knows he's overstepped. The conversation is steered away quickly.

"So, a little bird told me you play the guitar?" Wilbur nodded. A gift was produced, impeccably wrapped in bright yellows. Gingerly, the paper was pulled back to reveal a glossy new instrument.

The wood was waxed to a mirror, and varnished with the same horrid mustard he had stared at for almost a year. He ran his hands over the strings. Plastic, like everything else in the Capitol, and a simple pluck revealed their harsh tone. What Wilbur wouldn't give to be back in his home, where his guitar had been carved from driftwood and his strings were oiled fishing twine. A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips, washed away as he remembers that he _is_ home. He looks to Rajj for prompt.

"On behalf of all of Panem, I'd like to wish you, Wilbur Soot, a very happy birthday." 

"Thank you, Rajj, and thank you to Panem. It's always an honour to be here." 

"Now, how about we have a song?"

Obligingly, Wilbur cocked the instrument and started to strum.

He started with a Capitol song, one he had heard playing around the floor many times before. It was upbeat, as so many of their songs were. Why wouldn't they be? There was no hunger, as they ate off the labours of a starving district. There was no remorse, as they tore some poor family apart for sport. He finished the song quickly, with a round of applause from the camera crew. Wilbur grimaced. There was something lacking in all of the Capitol music that he hated. 

But still, he wanted to play on. The feeling of the guitar snug in his hand, the way his fingers brushed across the strings, it all felt so _right_. One last song couldn't hurt, right? And this time it would be _real_ music.

He played an old sea shanty he had heard many a time by the fishermen as they docked their boats. As his fingers danced over the strings, he imagined himself on the shore in District 4, singing as he skimmed pebbles across the water on a quiet day. Singing, as the whales soared through the waves. Singing, as his family danced around the beach beneath the moonlight.

The song ended abruptly. 

"I-I'm sorry, I uh, don't know the rest of it." He excused himself from the couch before the tears building became a flood.

He found himself staring at the horizon. The vast blue expanse wasn't even visible. Still, he hoped that somewhere, on a distant shore, they were looking back at him.

* * *

The Soots stood alone on the beach. A tiny wooden boat lays at their feet. With whispered words that fall unheard in the crash of waves, they send it off into the swell. There are a few notes on a driftwood guitar. The whales accompany it mournfully. They stare at it until they can no longer see the words 'William Gold' branded on the side. Then, one by one they turn away.

They know it is no use to wishing it a safe return. From the moment it set sail, it was already long gone. 

* * *

The ocean has no care about time. There is no regard for the tiny ship, swept off into the distance, far away from the safety of port. It has watched a fleet come before, each one disappearing as quickly as the last. There is no use mourning another.

In the end, it will all wash away, another sunken treasure buried beneath the waves. Hope never swayed the ocean before. 

And yet, they hope on.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope my first try at writing this au was successful! I know it's a little short, but I hope that you guys enjoyed it


End file.
